


Blind?

by gudlyfe2007



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Life is Struggle, M/M, Multi, Other, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Abuse, did, fluffy towards the end i guess?, oh my god what else do i tag this as??, this is my first work OTL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:45:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8872684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gudlyfe2007/pseuds/gudlyfe2007
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky saw himself in many things, yes, but just not...everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> haha so um remember when on my profile when I stated that many of the things I write about actually happen to me? well I like to vent and overshare through my muse characters, pls enjoy xoxoxo

Yuri Plisetsky saw himself in many things. 

From an early age, he saw himself as a world-renowned figure skater dancing across the ice, performance broadcasted on television all over the world so those below him (which was everyone) could marvel at his poise and grace. 

He saw himself through Saint George's eyes when sleep claimed him as he lay underneath thread bare blankets in a Moscow homeless shelter. He saw himself being praised by the Orthodox patron of victory for overcoming such obstacles in his life, for exceeding the expectations of those around him and for avenging himself against everyone who wronged him in his childhood. 

And when he was seven years old, Yuri saw himself reflected in the dull gray glass of a turned off 70's TV that had previously been playing a beautiful clip of a figure skating performance in the Olympics. His teal eyes studied greasy hair being pulled forward by the static of the screen, and the red marks littering his pale neck, and the bags under his eyes and even the minute details of the lingering evidence of a bloody nose. 

Yuri couldn't recall where any of these marks came from. He couldn't see himself laying down, back pressed into scratchy sheets and knees almost bent all the way over his head which lolled back onto a stained feather pillow, platinum blond hair spread around him like a halo. 

\--

As Yuri grew older, his sights set on victory did not waver. He began to see himself in many more situations, such as standing on podium and receiving his 7th gold medal at 14. His then wishful longing to see himself overtake the rink with his beauty being broadcasted over every country manifested itself into a physical reality. Yuri was not a spiritual person by any means but he could swear he heard Saint George leaning over his shoulder and whispering to him congratulations laced with reverence at how far the teen had come during his last competition. 

And as Yuri continued to witness himself in his present glory, a darker side of him continued to witness the situations that didn't result from hard work and acclaimed victories.

He often awoke at night with the feeling of cold hands holding him down and ghost pains wracking his lower back. On some nights he would wake up to the words "this is our little secret, Yuratchka," only to find that no one was present with him in his hotel room, except for the stinging heat of a USA summer making the wet spot between his legs increasingly uncomfortable. 

Sometimes the wet spot was urine and Yuri was embarrassed that he had wet the bed as a teenager. He reminded himself that he couldn't help the physical effects of a panic attack in his sleep, however. 

Sometimes the wet spot was not urine and Yuri was ashamed that part of him missed the chilly, arousing hands of his various assailants. That part of him reminded him that he was a slut and needed to be punished, and he couldn't help but let that part take over until everything was black and he woke up the next morning face down in vomit on the bathroom floor. 

As these alternating nights went on, the more Yuri lost sight of those darker parts, and the most he didn't remember his wet dreams and self-punishment via self-induced vomiting and the newly added lacerations on his thighs. He even began to lose sight of the gentler part of himself that wet the bed and cried when he lost his favorite cat stuffed animal (Yuri had tried to throw the thing out ages ago - it really didn't have that much sentimental value aside from being cute, and he wanted a new one that didn't smell like tears and expired candy, but somehow it kept making it way back into his closet and suitcase). 

For the past year, as far as Yuri could recall, he was just...Yuri. 

Yuri Plisetsky, Russian Punk, Russian Tiger, Russian Fairy or whatever have you. And he was content like that. 

\--

The Russian Punk saw far more than Yuri Plisetsky, or so he supposed. 

He saw the good things in life, the pleasure worth waking up for and money he could quite literally roll around in after one of the nights he left the aftermath press of a competition to "turn in early." 

He saw himself from that day when he was merely seven years old and being fucked into a creaky metal futon, back being rubbed raw by an unkempt and unwashed wool comforter. He saw himself everyday after that, every time rough, cold hands held him down by his frail shoulders and every time a greasy old geezer smiled at him from the alley way and beckoned him with a crooked finger. 

The Russian Punk saw the past, and all of it was clear, some parts more than others because he, unlike Yuri, was not limited to just sight. He heard, too. 

He heard men - and sometimes women - of all ages panting like the slobbering, horny dogs they were and he heard the sweet nothings whispered into his ears on nights that were particularly cold at the homeless shelter when his ears turned bright red with frostbite. 

He saw and heard the past, and unknown to Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian Punk could see and hear the present as well. 

He could see the way a fellow skater and admittedly sexy rival Jean-Jaques LeRoy licked his lips when a particularly foxy woman crossed his path. He heard how the Canadian flattered oodles of young ladies and sometimes young men too, and the sounds they made when they thought no one would find them behind the rink building. 

He saw and heard just as much as Yuri, but it was all processed differently and instead of running and hiding from these new desires, he instead /wanted/ them. 

The Russian Punk wanted more - he wanted JJ to make him scream up against a wall, he wanted to feel his hot tongue on his neck and look in the mirror to see his lithe, pale body violated all the way down to bruises on his hips and thighs. 

The devious blonde sat back with his legs spread lazily on a tacky floral print couch in the box of a more run-down skating rink. He studied the few sponsors that had shown up to watch some of the skater's practice, including JJ's. The older spotted him across the room and winked, sticking his tongue out. 

Fuck, the Russian Punk wanted that tongue inside him. 

\--

"Yuri, what are you doing?" came the soft yet warning words from JJ. Yuri had the taller man up against a wall around the corner of a hallway in their hotel room. The Russian Punk didn't reply, just glared at JJ, teal gaze heavy with want. He roughly grabbed the older's hand and brought it down to his crotch in between kissing him harshly. 

"No one has to know, JJ," he said seductively. JJ, surprisingly calm given the situation, removed himself from under the Russian which was not hard to do considering the strength and size difference. 

"You're fifteen, Yuri," he said gently. There was a foreign look of understanding in the Canadian's eyes that was completely new to the Russian Punk. "We can't. I don't want to - and I know that deep down you don't want to." 

"How the fuck can you know that?" he replied angrily, pulling on JJ's hands again. The tone he used - understanding, yet not tinged at all with condescending traces - scared him. It was different than how most people he seduced replied to him - everyone, especially older male sponsors and occasionally a rival far off his radar - wanted to fuck him. The Russian Punk knew that his body was alluring, but JJ didn't seem to get the memo. 

"Because I know this isn't the real you." 

The Russian Punk let go of JJ and took a step back in shock. There's no way that JJ could have guessed who or what this - this alternate Yuri was. He had worked years on concealing himself. Surely he was under the impression that he was merely talking to a confused /Yuri Plisetsky/, and not the Russian punk. 

He panicked. He didn't reply, but turned on his heals to flee the foreign situation only to be stopped by some force within himself. 

\--

While Yuir Plisetsky saw, and the Russian Punk heard, the Russian Fairy felt. 

He stopped in the hallway in the middle of the other's desperate flee, feeling a tidal wave of anxiety and turned around to face JJ. He knew that the look in his eyes was vastly different that of the Russian Punk's. He was dark, and alluring and borderline dangerous. 

But the Russian Fairy was small, and childlike and scared, feeling every emotion at once. And slowly JJ recognized the difference between the two, realization dawning on his features. 

The smaller panicked, tears welling in his eyes. He knew he had been caught, but he couldn't bring himself to leave because that meant that he would be alone, and lost in this huge hotel. 

"D-don't tell anyone," he murmured in broken English. 

\--

"Is what I think going on, going on?" JJ asked tentatively. But Yuri didn't seem to hear him - he had frozen mid-sprint to get away from the situation, and looked to be on another planet. Slowly the taller man witnessed the teen mentally come to. 

"Yuri?" he asked again. The blond turned toward him, a look of shell shock clouding his face. He was a completely different Yuri than moments ago, and JJ was taken off guard for a moment. He said his name again, but the younger did not respond. Wheels seemed to be turning in his head, eyes deflating into childlike fear. 

"D-don't tell anyone," the Russian muttered, eyes filling with tears. JJ nodded. 

He wanted to say so many things in that moment, the top thought wracking his brain being "it's okay, Yuri. I've seen a lot more things than people give me credit for, and my ego isn't as big as some of my rivals think. It's okay. I know what's going on." 

But he held his tongue, reminding himself that this was probably - no, almost definitely - not Yuri, but instead a scared child concealed in the teen's body.

"It's okay," JJ said, pretending to zip his lips closed, "your secret is safe with me." 

The small Yuri nodded, eyes wide. JJ smiled reassuringly, and had the original Yuri Plisetsky seen this polar opposite side of JJ doting on him, he would have been insulted and disgusted. 

"Shut the fuck up and let me be, you narcissistic shitstain," is what he was sure he would have said. But instead this Yuri reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him down the hallway and into his hotel room. 

"Can you stay for a while and rub my back...?" he asked JJ tearfully. Who was the Canadian to deny him? 

"Sure thing, buddy." 

"Just until I fall asleep, okay?" He layed down on a well-worn kind of ugly cat plush and clured in on himself, back against JJ's warm thigh as he settled on the bed next to him.

"Okay."

\--

Yuri Plisetsky saw himself in many things. 

This included but was not limited to several stages of enduring a broken childhood, the friends he made along the way growing out of the Moscow ghetto and bringing himself to a brighter future, and of course every award ceremony he had been in for his extravagant figure skating performances. 

Yes, the Russian Tiger, occasionally the Russian Punk and the Russian Fairy, saw himself in many things indeed, but not in everything.

**Author's Note:**

> me @ me W H Y


End file.
